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CHAPTER XXIX.
"I tell you, you shall wed him!"
"Lady Francesca Stukely, may I request your presence in my library?" said Lord Avonleigh, with the air of a philosopher or a Spanish minister of state, or whatever else may seem most important and imposing.
Francesca followed, reluctant enough in her secret; for though she would not have admitted it even to herself, she did shrink from the infliction of the inane solemnities with which her father garnished his discourse—to say nothing of the ungracious reflections which so often glanced at herself.
"Matters of import require time," said he, waving his hand, and taking an attitude in his chair, very far from insensible to his long-lingering personal graces; "I therefore beg you will
